


Interludes

by Nununununu



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Affection, Bonding, Caretaking, Domestic, Don't copy to another site, Feels, Gen, Learning to Parent, ManDadlorian, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Slice of Life, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:54:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23487154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nununununu/pseuds/Nununununu
Summary: The child may possess incredible powers, capable of strange and frankly awe-inspiring feats. But he's also a baby.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)
Comments: 91
Kudos: 380





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set nebulously sometime after episode three. Each chapter should essentially work as a standalone and also together. Marked as complete, but may be added to in the future.

After his parents’ death, the Mandalorian was never held or hugged as a child, and so it takes him a while to notice how the kid reacts to it.

“Mmrr,” Spitting out his mouthful, the child makes a rude noise.

“It’s a vegetable,” The Mandalorian bends down to pick the tuber up off the floor and show it to him, “You eat live frogs. You can eat this.”

Squealing, the child does his utmost to clamp his tiny hands over his mouth in refusal. The Mandalorian’s –

A bad example, isn’t he.

So far he hasn’t eaten anything in front of the little womp rat. Sighing, the Mandalorian picks the child up and sets him on his chair, before pushing up his helmet just enough to create space for him to get the tuber to his mouth.

Given the thick layers the Mandalorian wears beneath his armour, the child can’t see anything of his neck or chin, but the kid still goes quiet and still. Huge eyes transfixed on either the partially raised helmet or the vegetable – honestly it’s hard to tell.

“Bleh,” the kid says when the Mandalorian takes a bite, or something much like it.

The tuber is crunchy and yet somehow chewy both at once, with an oddly gritty aftertaste. Really, as an assessment, ‘bleh’ is not incorrect.

“All right, but we’re trying you on something other than meat and soup next time,” The Mandalorian points the tuber at the child, causing him to jump a bit and let out a trill of laughter.

It’s rare to hear him laugh. Something tightens helplessly in the Mandalorian’s chest.

“Hey,” Setting the tuber aside, he’s reaching out to pick the child up again without thinking about it, “You’re happy, huh?” _Is_ he happy?

As if in answer, tiny hands grasp hold of the Mandalorian’s thumbs. He’s so light it’s almost difficult to feel him as he perches on the Mandalorian’s knee.

Gazing up at the Mandalorian’s helmet, the child babbles as if he can see straight through it, as if he’s telling the Mandalorian of this wild and strange experience he just had, a grand story in which his caretaker attempted to feed him vegetables.

“Bleh!” The child finishes and bounces on the Mandalorian’s knee.

“Yeah,” Feeling oddly choked, the Mandalorian gathers him in closer, not thinking much about it when the child immediately nestles into the gap in between his elbow and his side, making a space for himself there, “How about we try you on sweet-melon sometime, then.”

He has vague memories of feasting on them eagerly, the juice dripping down his chin, his mother tutting at him while his father mussed his hair.

“I don’t know if they exist anywhere now,” Ignoring the way his voice is slightly husky, the Mandalorian places a gloved palm gently upon the child’s fuzzy head, “But if we find one, I reckon you’ll like it.”

The child is stroking the rough fabric of the Mandalorian’s cloak where it falls over his arm, murmuring as if commenting on the feel of it or possibly agreeing that, yes, he might indeed like the fruit.

His eyes are still huge and trained upwards upon his caretaker. The Mandalorian strokes his thumb, just once, in a line down the small space between them and the kid doesn’t quite blink.

“Yeah,” Repeating this a little more softly, the Mandalorian flips his cloak further over his body so the little one can more easily reach. Leaning back on his seat himself, he allows himself to close his eyes, “Maybe you’ll think it’s not a patch on frogs, but – I think you will like it. Here, have I told you about the time I ate one the size of my head as a kid?”

Of course he hasn’t. He’s never spoken this much to the child before.

He hasn’t spoken this much in years.

Blinking, the child lets out a giggle, as if amused by the concept of the giant melon. The words are still halting as the Mandalorian speaks, but they start to come easier gradually and with this encouragement. The memory begins to flow into the Mandalorian’s mind more steadily, with fewer jagged edges, tainted less often with more familiar echoes from the past – those of panicked desperation and terrified screams.

The kid is snoozing in the crook of the Mandalorian’s arm by the time he’s finished the story, one hand clenched in the cloak and the other fastened back around the Mandalorian’s thumb.

The Mandalorian almost can’t breathe at the sight of him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for non-detailed mentions of vomit.
> 
> (Update: oops, slightly edited for couple of lines that got lost/strayed in from a previous draft :/).

There is the single most appalling noise.

Halting in his tracks without consciously intending to, his back going ramrod straight within his armour, the Mandalorian slowly looks down at the kid.

Half-lidded eyes blink back up at him as the kid grins back a touch weakly, gummy mouthed. An indescribable mess slicks his tiny chin and his blanket – and a fair portion of the Mandalorian’s cloak.

Alarm shoots through the Mandalorian at the possibility of poisoning. _How the hell_ –

“Ahhh,” Cooing, the child gurgles, shaking his head until his long ears wiggle, apparently already starting to bounce back. Patting his little hands against the Mandalorian’s arm as if to say ‘get moving!’

“You –” A certain suspicion belatedly surfaces in the Mandalorian’s brain, “Puked. For no reason.”

Tiny feet kick merrily against the side of his ribs as if in agreement.

“I’m not holding you anymore,” Moving a bit stiffly, the Mandalorian goes to put the child down. The little one cries out in negation, clinging onto the Mandalorian’s sleeve, ears back, eyes open wide and pleading.

Kriff.

“ _Kriff_.”

They stay like that for a moment, the Mandalorian half crouched awkwardly, the kid’s ears trembling just a bit.

“Fine,” Sweeping up a patch of cloak that escaped the vomit, the Mandalorian straightens up again and wipes around that gummy mouth, the kid giggling and trying to snatch at the impromptu cloth, apparently having decided he’s forgiven.

“Yeah yeah,” It seems a bath is next in order. Not at all what he’d been planning to do.

At least the kid seems to like it, though. Shouting and splashing as he acts out some epic adventure that seems to involve three times the amount of water on the floor of the Razor Crest than the Mandalorian is certain he poured into the shallow basin.

Kneeling just out of splash range, he tugs the cloak off to clean it along with the little one’s blanket, and the child coos.

“This?” Rubbing his gloved fingers around the base of his neck, the Mandalorian finds the kid holding onto the rim of his basin, his dark eyes fixed on the cloak, “Yes, it comes off.” Rarely, true, and never before in company, but it does.

The kid burbles as if the very idea is high comedy and lets go of the basin to make grabby hands.

“Not unless you’re volunteering to wash it, no,” Given that the child might just take this comment seriously, the Mandalorian amends his response to, “Just no.”

What in the galaxy would the child want to _do_ with the cloak anyway? Use it as a second blanket?

The answer – as it turns out when both the cloak and blanket are clean, and the kid has long dried from his bath – is to make an entire new world out of it. The child freezes in surprise when the Mandalorian spreads the cloak – puke free and much cleaner than it’s been in no small amount of time – on the grass of the clearing they’ve landed in, near the entrance to the Razor Crest.

“Muh,” The kid places one tiny foot on the edge of the cloak, testing. Looks at the Mandalorian as if waiting for his reaction.

Said reaction is a sigh. But the Mandalorian’s lying down propped on an elbow next to his cloak, as relaxed as he ever is, and waves a hand in something that’s not quite resignation, “Yeah, go on.”

“Muh!” The kid plants his other foot on the cloak. Looks at his caretaker again, this time triumphantly.

“Yes, you conquered the cloak,” The Mandalorian’s lips might be quirking at the edges into something dangerously close to a grin beneath his helmet, but he succeeds in keeping his voice mostly dry.

“Muuuah!” Launching into action, the kid –

Startles his caretaker by flinging himself face first onto the ground. But between the grass and the cloak, it’s a soft landing, and the child is soon rolling back and forth in a way he never has before, seemingly endeavouring to wrap himself up in as much of the material as he can manage, wriggling and squealing and tunnelling through it, crawling and chuckling to himself.

Wearing himself out after some long minutes, he lies belly down in the middle of the cloak, bunching up handfuls of it in his tiny fists and burying his little face in the folds. The Mandalorian glances over at the sound of gentle whuffling.

Sniffing. For whatever reason, the kid is _sniffing_ the cloak –

“Mmm!” As outbursts go, this one is wholly disappointed, almost cross. 

“What?”

A fuzzy head pops up to look at the Mandalorian as if immensely betrayed.

“It –” Realisation makes the words stick in the Mandalorian’s throat. Washed and hung out in the suns to dry, it doesn’t smell like it used to – of old blood and dust and the dirt of so many ugly worlds.

“Bah,” The child sags as if this theory is totally off. And –

Oh.

_Oh_.

He knows why the kid’s upset. The answer claws its way painfully out of the Mandalorian’s mouth from somewhere in the region of his chest, “It doesn’t smell like _me_ anymore.”

The warble the little one gives is heart-rending. The emotion that surges up in the Mandalorian as a result is –

“Damn it,” Grabbing his rifle, he hoists himself up, “Got to – go shoot something.” His voice sounds _awful_. “Stay there.”

Scuttling off the cloak far more quickly than one might expect him to be able to move, the kid attaches himself to his caretaker’s ankle, cranes his head to look up at him and coos.

_Damn it_.

“Fine,” The Mandalorian stoops down to pick up the cloak. Fastening it around his neck, he finds himself glancing unintentionally back down at the child, as if looking for his approval.

“Muh,” The kid pats his boot, then lifts his short arms as high as he can to be held.

Sighing without meaning it in the slightest, the Mandalorian obligingly scoops the little one up, letting him nestle into the familiar crook of his arm, “But no more puking.”

“Bleh,” is the kid’s answer to _that_ , and –

“Yeah,” the Mandalorian nods his agreement as he starts off to find them something for dinner instead, “Bleh.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in a vague canon-divergent AU in so far as episode 4 doesn't exist (or at least not yet) :)

“No. It’s not for swimming in.”

Dark eyes open up wide, ears going back, the kid croons plaintively. The Mandalorian doesn’t let his fingers twitch. Doesn’t let his body language soften, remaining resolute. Implacable. This is something the child needs to learn.

“Mwuh?” Rather than trying to throw himself full bodied into the shallow water as he had been, the kid instead pokes out a hand. Gaze steady on his caretaker’s helmet, expression projecting blithe innocence, as if he’s not going to do anything whatsoever worth remarking on.

Leaning down ever so slowly to dunk his tiny fingers in the toilet bowl, as if the Mandalorian won’t notice.

“ _No_ ,” The liquid there is also definitely not for consuming.

Plucking the kid up by his collar, the Mandalorian stalks out of the refresher and locates the container lid he’s cleaned out for use as a cup, “Here.”

“Meh,” Planting his little palms on the receptacle, the kid strains to push it away, “Meh!”

“What –?” What the hell is wrong with the lid? And why the hell is the crapper so much more appealing? Sighing, the Mandalorian leaves off with the drink, raising the kid up to eye level to squint at him, “Are you just screwing with me?”

It’s the third time they’ve been through this today.

Shutting the lid of the toilet, devising a way to _lock_ the lid, locking the door to the refresher and even eventually blocking said door have all so far proved ineffectual, each barrier mysteriously removed the instant the Mandalorian looks away.

As games go, it would almost be amusing if he wasn’t convinced the kid fully intended to actually drink from it or take a swim.

“Are you –” A possibility ever so slowly surfaces in the Mandalorian’s brain, just as gradually as the kid had moved that tiny hand, “Bored?”

“ _Meh!_ ” Reaching eagerly towards the Mandalorian’s helmet, the kid seems to catch himself at the last moment, freezing in his caretaker’s grip. He tips his tiny head, “Bah?”

It’s clearly a question.

“I –” No one touches the Mandalorian’s helmet. No one. Not unless they’re wanting to lose their life, or at least a limb. He has to stop himself from tensing or tightening his hold on the kid’s collar.

“Mmm,” The little hands lower, the kid slumping in his grip until he’s just hanging there. Tiny fingers shifting a bit, aimlessly, “Guh.”

“Hey,” The Mandalorian finds himself bringing his free hand up before he knows what he’s doing, curving it around the little one’s back to take his weight and support him properly, drawing him down against his cuirass. Tiny ears go back up, the kid stirring, glancing up at his helmet as if to check he’s not in trouble.

“Hm,” The Mandalorian tips his chin in confirmation, and that little smile stretches out wide.

“Muh!” The kid pats the cuirass, jumping a bit and then chuckling at the resultant clang. It’s perhaps inevitable that he bops it again. And then, when his caretaker doesn’t react, _again_. “Muh!”

“ _Hey_ ,” The Mandalorian’s mouth might be endeavouring to turn upwards within his helmet, but he nonetheless catches hold of little hands when it seems his armour is in danger of being turned into a rudimentary instrument, “Enough of that.” 

“Meh,” the kid sags all over again. And –

“Come on,” Something snaps within the Mandalorian. Adjusting the child in his hold, he collects his rifle and the sharp little knife he uses for repairs. The latter gets tucked away somewhere on his armour curious fingers won’t find and then he last picks up that much-disliked lid.

Walking down the ramp of the Razor Crest even as it opens, the kid perks up as they leave the ship, wriggling where he’s tucked between the crook of the Mandalorian’s elbow and chest.

The downpour outside has finally stopped, sunshine breaking through heavy banks of dark clouds. The little one squeals at the sight of it.

“Yeah,” Depositing him on a patch of ground that doesn’t seem too bog-like, the Mandalorian rests his gloved palm just for a second on the top of the small fuzzy head, “Go on, then.”

Screeching in joy, the kid _runs_ –

And belly-flops in the first puddle he comes to. Rolls around in it, sending water cascading as far as he can manage, thrashing gleefully with all four little limbs. Warbling giggles fill the air.

“Huh,” Staring after him, rifle half-forgotten in his grip as his hand goes lax, the Mandalorian is slow to register the rusty noise that starts rattling out of him.

Apparently he’s laughing.

“Muh?” Long ears prick up as the kid evidently overhears. Straightening, he blinks and wrinkles his nose, flapping his arms a bit as if concerned for the mental wellbeing of his caretaker.

“It’s nothing,” Huffing, the Mandalorian shakes his head. How –

_How many years_ has it been since he last laughed?

He has no idea.

Keeping an eye out as the little womp rat starts investigating all the mud, the Mandalorian crosses over to one of the trees surrounding the clearing they’re in. A low hanging branch provides what he’s looking for and it isn’t any effort to snap off a decent sized bit.

A completely mud-drenched soggy infant attempts to climb onto his knee sometime later, when the Mandalorian is perched on the ramp, intent on shaping the thing he’s created. Having never attempted wood-carving before, it’s clunky and uneven, as rough looking as hell.

But the kid reaches up to it as if it’s priceless.

“Ahhh,” When the Mandalorian passes the item over to the hopeful little hands, the kid beams, “Oooh.”

Little fingers investigate the contours of the object, dipping into the hollow curiously before turning it upside down.

“That’s –” The Mandalorian has to cut himself off when the child promptly puts the thing on his head. Large eyes blink out at him from half under it when it slips. “Not a helmet.”

Intending to remove it from the kid’s head, he finds his hand comes to a stop against the little one’s cheek instead.

“Muh?” A muddy hand comes up to rest against his, fingers wrapping around the Mandalorian’s thumb as the kid nestles into his caretaker’s palm.

That painful feeling floods the Mandalorian’s chest, spreading out through his body until it paralyses him. He can’t speak.

“Mmm,” the kid croons.

“Mm,” the Mandalorian manages to grunt in response, appallingly husky. Shaking himself, he clears his throat and forces himself to pull back, intending to continue the job, “It needs sanding. Go get cleaned up while I finish it.”

“Bah!” The kid practically skips off to wade in a puddle. He’ll need a bath later, but for the time being –

The Mandalorian has completed his task by the time the little one returns, supporting tiny hands so the child can tip the liquid out of the container lid and into his new cup.

Kicking his little legs joyfully as he sits on the ramp next to his caretaker, the child drinks every bit.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who's left kudos or commented on previous chapters <3 Still set in some nebulous time during canon.
> 
> A touch of hurt/comfort :)

The sun overhead is brutal.

There’s no sign of water and next to no shade. The child droops in the crook of his elbow, ears wilted, murmuring unhappily as he pushes against the Mandalorian’s chest. Pushing _away_. His tiny body held stiffly, attempting to angle himself further from the heat collected in dark fabric.

It’s better that than having him hurt his feet on hot stone or risk him touching scalding Beskar. The Mandalorian’s chestplate is tucked under his other arm, wrapped in his cloak in case small hands come in reach of it, his rifle in his hand.

“Not much longer now,” Guilt beats hard against his ribs and he shifts the hand cradling the kid’s head further over the soft brow, ensuring those large eyes are turned away from the painful brightness of the sky. 

He’d miscalculated.

It had been a good bounty, too tempting in hindsight, promising sorely needed pay that would see them through the next few weeks along with necessary items purchased for the child and vital repairs made to the Razor Crest. The older children of the nomad group that had hired him had been pleased to look after the little one in the shade of their tents and he had been eager to stay and play.

The Mandalorian should have known the child would find a way to follow him all the same.

“Next time, stay where it’s safe,” Thirst cramps his throat.

“ _Bah_ ,” The kid’s response is too miserable to contain as much as anger the Mandalorian deserves, although he gets the decided impression tiny fists would hit his chest if the child had enough energy.

An unfamiliar emotion rises in him as if from an unrecognisable depth.

“I – can’t always stay where it’s safe,” His voice rasps, “You wanted to –”

He can’t say it. But he’s abruptly certain the child had sought him out in the desire to watch over him. To ensure _his_ safety, which is entirely the wrong way round.

“Muh,” the child’s little head bows. He’s panting lightly, fingers slackening, no longer straining to escape.

“Mm,” Sharp-edged pain builds inside the Mandalorian next to that guilt.

Water – the kid needs to drink. They both do. They need shelter and rest and a break from the brutal press of the heat beating down on them.

He’s nearly insensate himself on reaching the Razor Crest. At least the canyon it’s concealed in provides shade and the ship itself is well-insulated; he’s learned his lesson about leaving the ramp open.

The Mandalorian staggers on board, slaps on the life support system they can rarely afford to use when planetside, sees the child sips water as slowly as possible and fetches more to cool his skin.

“Mmm?” The little one stirs as he seems to register the change, great dark eyes opening up wider and scanning their surroundings as if in appreciation, his ears perking up. Tiny hands clasp hold of the sponge – a fairly recent addition to the collection of items the Mandalorian has found himself assembling on board – and happily squeeze, “Meh!”

“Mm,” Relief hits the Mandalorian so hard he has to sit down on the deck. Dizzied, he finds himself clawing at his remaining armour, tugging the top half of his clothes off until he reaches his undershirt and kicking off his boots, finding the task much more difficult than it should be.

He needs –

“Buh?” The kid is in front of him seemingly in the time it takes him to blink, the cup the Mandalorian had carved for him held in both hands, filled to the brim with clear water.

Offering it to him.

“I – You have it,” It’s important the kid keep hydrating; the Mandalorian can look after himself. In a moment. As soon as he can find his feet.

A tiny foot stamps – carefully, so not to spill any of the precious liquid.

“ _Bah!_ ”

A strange feeling of distress gathers in the Mandalorian’s temples; an outpouring of emotion that doesn’t seem to come from him. Long ears are pressed back, the child’s mouth curving downwards, his little body straining to keep holding the cup aloft.

“I’m. Being an idiot,” His breath rushing out of him, the Mandalorian slumps back against the wall of the ship, “Aren’t I.”

“Muh,” The child fumbles to climb on his lap, crying out when the cup comes close to tipping over.

“It’s all right,” The Mandalorian gets his hand under it, stabilising both drink and little one, “Thank you.”

“Hm,” This sounds distinctly unimpressed. The child presses the cup further into the Mandalorian’s grip, then pulls his little hand back only to press it with surprising gentleness against the Mandalorian’s chest.

Right over his heart.

“Mm?” The Mandalorian’s voice is unbearably husky. The sight of that small face through his visor –

For the briefest of moments he allows himself to indulge an unbidden pang of regret that he can only see that face with his own eyes when the kid is asleep.

That the child can never see his.

“Muh,” Sighing, the child places his other hand on his own tiny chest.

Oh.

_Oh_.

The Mandalorian can only look at him, frozen, too full of – everything – to react.

“Mm,” Nodding as if his point has been made, the child next turns his back to the Mandalorian, plops himself down on his thigh and pats his caretaker’s knee as if to say _now get a move on_.

“Y-yeah,” There’s something even more wrong with the Mandalorian’s voice.

Refusing to let his hands shake, he pushes up his helmet, forcing himself to drink slowly enough it feels agonising – he’s so thirsty it’s as if his mouth absorbs the liquid before it even reaches his throat.

“Hmph,” is the kid’s assessment of this. A familiar container lid has mysteriously appeared within reach, similarly filled with water.

“Hmm,” The Mandalorian eyes the back of the kid’s head.

“Hmph!” Little fists clutch handfuls of his trousers. It takes until the Mandalorian has finished this second drink before the kid relents.

“ _Thank you,_ ” The Mandalorian can say this again now.

Lowering his helmet, he runs his thumb lightly down the length of one ear and the child makes a little crooning noise, swivelling to clamber hurriedly into his waiting arms, tucking his small face into the crook of the Mandalorian’s neck.

Hands find the collar of his undershirt and cling.

The feeling of this is –

“I’m sorry,” The Mandalorian has to close his eyes.

Although he must take care to ensure they both continue to cool down, he lets himself wrap his arms gently around that small body for just a moment, and holds the child closer, not wanting to let go.


End file.
